The young Duke himself gave it up after a few years to go off whale-hunting, for which, after the fatal accident with the Blubber Boiler, his name is better remembered than for his brief experience of politics. His successor will, I am afraid, be remembered only for the deplorable Herrenheimer Commission. The next in office, only obtained after a long and agonized searching by the Prime Minister of the day, was a gentleman from one of our great Dominions of whom no one had hitherto heard; but he was at least able to spend lavishly, and the tradition which the young Duke had founded struck deeper root than ever.
Then Good Fortune, which never forsakes the public life of a chosen people, came to our aid, and Lord Papworthy, a man already well over fifty, appeared as the ideal candidate.
This had been seventeen years ago, seven before Mrs. Boulger’s first administration, that of 1950, and Lord Papworthy (who was, of course, as his father had been, a pillar of the Socialist Party) then first became Minister and was an immediate success. Almost his first act was to buy the Woolson Vase and present it to the nation.
But when, four years later, the Anarchist Party was due to succeed in the regular rotation, there naturally came an acute anxiety as to what would happen to the Department of Fine Arts. Not only was there no one to compare with Papworthy, there was actually no one able to fill the place at all. There were plenty who would have liked the salary, but none of them could— or if they could, would—have spent money for the benefit of the galleries. There were plenty who could and would spend money on pictures, but not at the price of political burdens and the headship of a department. They preferred a shameful idleness to such onerous service of the State.
The obvious remedy was that Lord Papworthy should think better of his political principles, and join the Anarchist Party. The change was duly made, and he continued under the sober and well-administered reign of Lord Mandon’s Anarchist premiership to preside over the new black steel and glass building in Whitehall.
When the time had come for Lord Mandon to change about, and hand over the salaries to the Socialist party again (the moment known in political circles as “musical chairs”), it was as evident as ever that no suitable candidate for the Ministry of Fine Arts was available except, of course, the now firmly-established Lord Papworthy. In the world that counts, the men and women who care about painting and sculpture, and who know that they know about it, are numerous and have power. Those of them who care, care for it much more than they care about the other activities of Westminster; and they all insisted upon Papworthy. The humbler people, young and old, who earn their money from the people that count by painting their portraits and things even more startling, made it clearly understood by their clamour that there could be no question of anybody at all except Papworthy.
It seemed necessary at this critical moment that Lord Papworthy should again reconsider his principles and remain in office by turning Socialist again. After all, he had been of this political persuasion only four short years before, and it would be easy for him to pick up the broken threads of his Socialist principles.
But it was now evident that with every new change of Government, so long as Lord Papworthy survived— and the rubicund old boy was a fine healthy man— there would have to be some arrangement made by which he could be installed irremovably, once and for all, at the Ministry of Fine Arts.
One of the most interesting of the many constitutional discussions which add such dignity to our public life was thrashed out on this occasion; some of it in the columns of The Times, the more important of it more privately in Mrs. Boulger’s own study.
You will remember that this third tenure of the office by Lord Papworthy was at the beginning of Mrs. Boulger’s first administration. One set of authorities on constitutional practice were for setting up a special rule ad hoc to fit the case of the Minister of Fine Arts. They suggested that the tenant of the day should change his party with each election. The other set— in my judgement the more reasonable—suggested that he should sit as a member of the Government when his own party was in power; and then, when he had passed into Opposition, should still sit as a member of the Government, though as a member of the Opposition. When his party should come in again, he should continue to hold office as a member of the Government party, then, if God granted him life, when he went into Opposition again, he should still sit once more as an Opposition member of the Ministry—and so on, until God should cease to grant him life. And as to what would happen then to the Ministry of Fine Arts—or the Minister—God only knew.
It was this last party which carried the day. They had behind them the wise precedent of the Nationalist Government which many men not far advanced in middle age could remember from the days of their youth, when it had been decided for the first time, on the highest constitutional authority, that Ministers in active opposition to each other on the main points of national policy should draw their £100 a week in the same Cabinet.
To tell the truth, Lord Papworthy by this time could never clearly remember which of the two parties was in power, as he always sat on the same bench in the House, and on the same corner of that bench. If he sometimes made a mistake, alluding to himself as an Anarchist when he should have called himself a Socialist, or the other way about, nobody minded, because he had become a national institution.
Such had Lord Papworthy been for now so many administrations, when, as I have said, some two years ago he appeared on his return from Canada with a wife. I have told how his first cousin once removed, and heir, suffered a brief alarm. It was soon fairly evident that there would be no baby rival to his claim. But in other things more important than children the marriage was a success, as I hope I have also made clear. It gave the Ministry of Fine Arts new life. The brilliant circle surrounding young Lady Papworthy lent to the appreciation of the new schools, from miniature to architecture, and from enamels to large wrought - iron gates, a life and splendour which were not to be found in any other Cabinet in Europe.
The fact that her receptions and her more private gatherings were literary and of the drama, as well as of the arts, gave them the more vitality. And what gave them unity as well—an important point—was the continual presence of Reginald Butler.
So much for Lord and Lady Papworthy. Pray bear them well in mind. Remember their complete indifference to the interests of party, their devotion to the things of the spirit, and to the Muses. Remember also the haunting presence in Papworthy House of Reginald Butler, whose misguided whimsies on the purity of public life were to play so considerable a part in the fortunes of Mr. Williams, the Home Secretary; Sir Andrew McAuley, the Attorney-General; his brother James Haggismuir, the controller of Durrant’s; Mrs. Boulger herself; and most of all Wilfrid Halterton, the Postmaster-General to His Majesty.
Chapter VI
When Wilfrid Halterton had left him, on that Thursday evening in the House of Commons, the Home Secretary worked on an hour or two, then he gathered his papers together and looked at his watch. He decided that he would get a pair and not dine in the House. He had an idea of doing some private business that evening, and it is often unwise to do one’s private business in the House itself. He got his pair, and went across the street to the little club which he shared with some of his fellow-members to take his chop. While he was waiting for it he began his business by telephoning. It was more private than telephoning from the House. He telephoned to James Haggismuir McAuley.
They greeted each other cordially over the instrument. No one could be more useful to James Haggismuir McAuley than Jack Williams, and Jack Williams hoped to find one connection, at least, with James Haggismuir McAuley very useful indeed in the near future.
“Doing anything to-night?” said Williams.
“No. I’m trying to get through some work at home.”
“I’m just having a chop at the Corner Club by myself. I’m fed up. I don’t want to go back to the House—there’s nothing on. Could you come round here after dinner and walk round the cloth with me —just a hundred or t
wo up?”
It was something of a compliment to be asked casually by Williams like that to play billiards, for the Home Secretary’s fame as a billiard player stood high among the amateurs of his set, though not approaching professional form.
“I see. What’ll you give me? Or what? I can’t play a man like you scratch. And I can’t get round much before nine. Will that do?”
So it was settled. Settled as Jack Williams had desired. Settled as things usually were settled when Jack Williams had the doing of them—even when he had the doing of them side by side with such a brain as that of the financier who was about to play billiards with him.
In the interval between his meal and the arrival of his friend Jack Williams read the evening paper, which expressed the views of his other grateful friend Lord Desportes. Even as he did so he was clinching down in his mind, one after the other, the points which he had so frankly made for the benefit of Wilfrid Halterton, for Jack Williams was well able to do two things at once, as many men of even lesser talent can; he could read—and understand what he was reading—and at the same time he could consider a problem in his mind. So while he absorbed Buggs’s views on international affairs, and currency, and things like that, things on which Buggs’s views were always pronounced and lucid, he was settling every step in his conjecture upon James McAuley’s action in Halterton’s case, and approving wholly of his conclusion.
Yes, that document would be on J.’s person! It would be in a pocket; it would be in an inside breastpocket, and it would be the inside left breast-pocket of the morning coat. Or, if he had dressed for dinner, of the evening coat. What is more, he was prepared to bet a man of so many interests as James Haggismuir McAuley had an inner pocket to his dinner jacket: but had it a button …?
In the same pocket would be something else a good deal more important to Jack Williams than what the unfortunate Halterton was mourning. For side by side with that document there certainly lay in the same pocket, if Williams knew anything of human habits and particularly of public life, that other important document in which the Television Contract was pledged to Durrant’s.
Reasoning of this sort is not infallible: if it proved wrong—well—he could always try again. But he was pretty sure he was right—and he was.
J. turned up punctually enough, and, with the sharp precision that characterized him, asked for the game.
“What are you going to give me?” he said.
“Oh, I can’t give you anything on a 100, J.,” protested Mr. Williams.
“Let’s make it 300, then. You’ve got to give me something; you always do.”
“All right, I’ll give you 50,” said Williams, rather reluctantly, and added, “We’ll make it a quid.”
“Half a quid,” was J.’s determined answer. And it went at that.
There was no one else in the large billiard-room of the Club. All was in shadow, save where, from under their shades, the six lights threw their brilliance upon the green cloth. Jack Williams slowly took off his coat and hung it up upon a row of hooks that stood on the dark side of the room over the leather-covered bench that ran there, by the wall. Then he moved the plain marker to fifty. He himself took spot, and left it at zero. They tossed for the break and Williams won. He took up his cue, intent upon nothing but the three balls on the table, while James Haggismuir McAuley slowly took off his coat in his turn and hung it up side by side with the Home Secretary’s—and all the while the Home Secretary kept his gaze fixed upon the lie of the table, his back turned to the two coats. There was plenty of time.
He played for a miss in baulk, carefully. While the other was making his first break of 20, until he missed his last stroke by a hair’s-breadth, Williams watched the table unceasingly, his face still on the game and away from those coats, where they hung side by side from the pegs. It was his turn again. He did not seem to be playing with his usual skill; the break was a short one. There were three such alterations, at the end of which McAuley was leading by somewhat more than his handicap of 50, and was pleased to be so leading. Williams, as though feeling the challenge, began to play more carefully. He piled up another 32. By this time McAuley was warm to his work, and his following turn went off magnificently, the red potted outwards in the middle and spot cannoning after it into the farther right-hand pocket.
And so on. … It seemed as though it would never end. Williams, audibly commenting his admiration, stepped back into the shadow. He stood there a moment with his feet wide apart, one thrust forward into the patch of light near the table, the other withdrawn towards the bench along the wall. In such a stance he then did three things simultaneously, one with his tongue, one with his eyes and one with his left hand; while his right hand thrust his cue forward so that it showed in the edge of the light from the lamps.
What he did with his tongue was to say: “Oh, well played! Well played!” What he did with his eyes was to look eagerly on at the green cloth and follow the shock of the balls. What he did with his dexterous left hand at the end of his long left arm was to stretch well behind him towards McAuley’s coat and to convey the two envelopes in a flash from that inner pocket— crushed, alas! and mangled, but safe—into his own trouser pocket. It was all over between the moment when J. had begun aiming and the first touch of the cue on the ball. And that was that.
The Home Secretary’s excursion made no interruption in his activities as a player. He said again, without an interval for breath: “Well played!” and then walked right round to the end of the table to see how James Haggismuir McAuley might deal with the very interesting cushion position. The financier looked at the problem with his head on one side, the statesman looked at it with his head also on one side, and they frankly discussed it together.
“What would you do?” said J.
“I don’t see why I should help you to win half a quid off me,” said the other. “But I should play a follow-up with a top-screw.”
J. played that and failed.
“You had your own reasons for giving me your advice, Jack,” he laughed.
“No, no,” laughed Williams as genially. “You’ve left them perfectly for me. But I won’t rob you. I’d hate to rob you. Look here.” And he deliberately played at random. “Now that gives you your chance again.”
“Thanks,” said McAuley, accepting the gift without protest. After that they played faster and faster, one against the other, as thick as thieves.
Meanwhile in the House of Commons Laycock, a backbencher Anarchist, was on his legs for the Opposition side; and when Laycock once began he was good for an hour and a half. The House was almost empty, the Postmaster-General sat alone on the Government bench, and in his unhappy mind there pranced a tormenting demon. He could not rest until he had seen Williams again. He must have further advice.
Wilfrid Halterton looked over his shoulder at a young back-bencher just behind him, a rising hope of the Socialist party, and whispered: “Will you carry on after this till I get back?” The young man nodded joyfully. Halterton hastily slipped out, made the necessary arrangements with the Speaker in a low word or two as he passed the Chair, asked in the corridor outside if anyone knew where Williams was, and learning that he was at the Club, went over there at once.
Williams, he was told, was in the billiard-room. Halterton hesitated: but he might yet get his chance.
He had no luck. As he went up towards the billiard-room, thinking that perhaps the game would soon be over, and that he might catch Williams alone for a moment, he saw young Hayling in front of him on the stairs. Still, he would try his luck; and he and Hayling came together into the room. The two players looked round; McAuley, who was unoccupied, nodded rather coldly at Halterton; Williams continued to score, not pausing to speak to the new-comers until his break should be over and the other should be in play.
Hayling and Halterton sat in the dark of the side benches just under the hooks where the coats of the two players were hanging. Halterton, looking on at the game, suffered a little in soul to hear the genial
ity of Williams’s tones as he addressed the financier, the little emphatic “Well played!” coming out once or twice jarred on him. Of course, the courtesies must be maintained, but still! Williams was the man, after all, who knew best what McAuley had done. Yet he must not think of that. He must do what he could to get Williams alone.
He tried to stick it out till Williams should be disengaged. But the thing went on too long for him. He glanced at his watch and found that he had already been away more time than would be tolerated. He sat in an agony for another five minutes, and then reluctantly went out, telling himself that he would come in again after the House rose and chance finding Williams alone. Young Hayling watched the game perhaps another five minutes after Halterton had gone, then he too went.
When Halterton and Hayling left the game was still 100 short, but the rest went quicker. Whether there was any lingering superstition in Jack Williams I know not, but at any rate he played his best, as though determined to make the evening a fortunate one all round. And, indeed, he ended with J.’s ten shillings stuffed into the same pocket with its little brothers, the crumpled envelopes.
“Have a drink?” said the Home Secretary, putting on his coat.
“Thanks, I will,” said McAuley, putting on his.
Then when the whiskies and sodas had come and disappeared again Williams said he must be getting home to bed. “I arranged a pair before I dined,” he said. “I shan’t bother to go back to the House. I’ll just take the train from the station downstairs, and get home in good time.
“Shall I drive you to Victoria?” said McAuley.
“No, thanks, it’s very good of you. But I’d just as soon go by train at this time of night, and besides, it’s a long way out of your way.”
So McAuley, who quite agreed, went off alone to the Marble Arch flat in his car, and Williams within three minutes was in the train from which he would change at Victoria for Clapham.
The Postmaster General Page 7